PARIS IN MY HEAD

Updated: Aug 30

How one empath copes with blatant, systemic and lethal racism



August 27, 2020

I want this blog to be light. To be fun. To be fun-nee. But today’s post is and must be serious. Indeed, it is a life-and-death subject. And, my idiosyncratic way of dealing with it.


Last night I saw on the news, as so many did, a chubby white kid wield an AR-15 and shoot people protesting in the streets of Kenusha, Wisconsin. Not only did my blood pressure sky-rocket, but later in an effort to protect myself from exploding or puddling, I went to Paris. In my head.


My coping mechanism of late is pulling up videos of the capital of France. Reading books about the City of Lights. Writing about Gay Paree. Dreaming of a return to La Dame de Fer. For Pete’s sake, I only went once in 2018, and it was for three nights. Not only that. My travel companion really didn’t have the same appreciation—okay adoration—for it as I did.


I know what you are thinking. “That’s crazy, going to Paris in your head.” Hey. You cope your way, and I will cope mine. Some people drink (okay, I do that too), others travel to exotic locales in their cranium. To be fair, sometimes I go elsewhere, like southern France. Or to Ethiopia. Or to Iran. Just to shake things up. In my head. But, mostly I go to Paris.

I’ve been told in reality that I might want to control my angry activism. Au contrere, mon ami. My ire is righteous (at least I believe it is), meaning I am outraged by what I think God, the Creator, the Head Honcho, the Master Artist, the Great Guru in the Sky would be mad about. I can tell you without an ounce of doubt in my 5’3” --and shrinking—frame that my pal, JC, would not be happy about this baby-faced trigger-happy terrorist murdering his creation, his humans. No, siree. And for what? Protection of property. Wouldn’t this so-called Christian God value human lives over property?

The event leading up to the protests, which followed with the white-slaughterer incident was the following. Also observed on the idiot tube. What I saw on TV was a black father held by his tee-shirt then shot seven times in front of his three young children. After that, the organic and essential protests grew in the town center. Finally, in disbelief, I watched a video-game-esque shoot ‘em up by the juvenile Trumpet. This round Trumpet must have been so inspired by the President of the United States' "law and order" mantra that he took it into his own hands to end the lives of activists with whom he didn't agree.


My practical solution, of course, is to speak out. Then, obviously, to vote for the candidates who are as outraged as I am about the blatant, systemic and dangerous injustices. It is to assail the polls with others in droves and elect the party espousing true equality for all. Who are grateful for police but think we need better policing. Who are compassionate.


But then, once I have shaken my fist in sacred activism. Once I have devised a plan to vote. Glorious then! Then, and not exactly in simultaneously fashion, I will climb the cobblestone streets of Montmartre, stroll through a cemetery in Montparnasse, sip coffee at a café’ in the Latin Quarter. Yeah, this blindingly white human will tuck James Baldwin or Richard Wright under her damn freckled arm, grab a carb-loaded damn baguette and a damn chunk of brie and sit by my unreal Seine and read.


Care to join me?



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